Blue Ribbon
by lilyamongthorns
Summary: New pants and his cleanest shirt, scrubbed just this morning on his mother's washboard. Today was Reaping Day. Haymitch's POV of the District 12 reaping of the 50th Hunger Games and beyond. Effie POV, too.
1. Chapter 1

New pants and his cleanest shirt, scrubbed just this morning on his mother's washboard. Now she worked meticulously on his unruly hair. He huffed and squirmed away from her hand, and pushed his hair into his back into face. She narrowed her eyes for only a moment before smiling up at her son, a thin laugh escaping her lips.

"Oh, my Haymitch. You're already so tall," she said. Her hands, weathered and creased from work, gripped his forearms. "And strong."

Her grey eyes grew dim and weary. They always seemed to be so these days. But there was something else, and Haymitch identified it quickly. The same fear sat in his own eyes, tamped down, but still there.

Today was Reaping Day. And his name was entered 22 times. Jem's was entered once.

"Mama," Haymitch said, his hands rising to her shoulders. She was a head shorter than him, and her frame smaller. Smaller and smaller every day, he thought. He wanted to say something pertinent. Something to comfort her, but no words came. Instead, he drew her close. He took in every trait that he could. Her hair that smelled of lye soap, her slim fingers. When he leaned back, he found that he couldn't look her in the eyes anymore.

Jem clamored from the house, the collar of his shirt turned upwards and a button skipped at the center. Mrs. Abernathy bent to correct it, and Haymitch ruffled the boy's hair.

Roughly, he pulled Jem to his side for a hug. The boy reciprocated, before slugging the older boy in the side playfully.

Gravel crunched on the porch in front of their house, indicating a visitor. Or several. The Fennwicks stood gathered together, all ten of them. Mr. and Mrs. Fennwick wore the same sad and darkened expression his own mother had. The seven younger children were dressed cleanly and freshly bathed, though this couldn't hide their gaunt faces and shaking hands. Among them, however, was reason for Haymitch to smile.

Iva Fennwick stood, like a fresh spring daisy, in a clean dress and her golden hair freshly plaited. At the end of her braid was tied a new blue ribbon.

The three Abernathys joined their neighbors, and the group made their way to the Justice Building.

Preoccupied with a pebble on the road before him, Haymitch's reverie was broken when a soft hand enveloped his. Iva fell into step beside him, her boots newly polished. He'd forgotten to clean his own worn leather work boots that crunched the gravel beside her dainty ones.

He didn't speak, but he looked up at her and smiled. As wide as he could. He gave her hand a squeeze and glanced back down towards the road.

When they reached the square, Iva's hand tightened around his at the sight of the Peacekeepers. He tugged her closer, the pad of his thumb brushing the back of her hand. It was all he could do to comfort her.

The pair parted into their separate lines, a few of her brothers and Jem accompanying Haymitch to the boys' line. He glanced back at her only once, in time to see her flinch when her finger was pricked.

He separated from Jem and the Finnwick boys after signing in. They stood near the front with the younger boys, and he took his place in the back. Beside him stood Archer Redding, a miner that had been on his father's crew. He'd never spoken a word to the man, and had never heard him speak. To his right was Fredrick Mellark. The boys attended school together, but weren't particularly good friends. The line felt suddenly cramped to Haymitch, and he swallowed thickly before a high screech emitted from the microphone on stage.

The escort, a round blueberry of a man, recited his speech and indicated the film to play. Across the square, Haymitch searched for his mother, at the back row, looking solemn once more.

Iva was near the middle, and he spotted her bright green eyes searching for his own. He smiled, and nodded at her, trying to quench the anxiety still on her face. But then again, wasn't everyone anxious today? Here in Twelve, everyone knew everyone. It didn't matter whose name was drawn.

The second Quarter Quell called for four tribute in all, two girls and two boys, as the escort explained. Jean Carter was first, her face blank as she climbed the steps to the platform. Next, Maysilee Donner was called. Her bright red curls were unique here, and easily identifiable three rows ahead of Iva as she shuffled her way forward.

Next, Harvey Drear was called. Haymitch watched him scoot around Jem just rows ahead.

The next words made his ears ring. His own name.

For a moment, his breath was stuck in his throat. The entire square stared as he trudged forward, scuffing his boots into the concrete.

The escort gathered the four of them into a line, and Haymitch realized he'd never actually stood next to any of these people. Not even in school. This was their first and final hello.

He caught Iva's eyes across the square; her cheeks were stained with tear tracks already. Her face was staunch, and tight. His mother had vanished but a thin squealing a distance away told her story. He didn't have time to glance to Jem before the group was corralled into the Justice building to wait for their final goodbyes.

-O-O-O-

He bolted upright, running into his mother's arms as soon as the doors opened. "Haymitch, Haymitch, _please!"_ she begged, but he wasn't sure what for. She hung onto him, sobbing into his clean shirt.

"Mama," he said once more, squeezing her small frame as hard as he dared. "It'll be ok. It'll be fine. I know it. Mama, please," he hissed. He wasn't sure why he was begging either.

They'd starve without him, he knew it. Jem was already so small. He tried not to think on it while he hugged the boy, and ruffled his hair one last time before the pair was ushered out the door.

When Iva entered, her tears had stopped, but her face was red and raw. "Haymitch," she choked.

He couldn't help but smile at her, feeling wetness in his own eyes now. "It'll be fine, lovely."

She shook her head, and he reached up to cup her jaw with both hands, stilling her.

"I promise," he vowed. His hands cupped her cheeks, his thumbs ghosting over them. He traced a line down her nose with one finger before reaching for her braid. Her hair was soft as new cotton and light as wheat. He focused intensely on every attribute of her, memorizing her.

The blue ribbon at the end of her plait came undone easily with one tug. He stowed it in his pocket quickly, before the Peacekeeper entered again and grabbed her arm, forcing her out the door.

Alone, the magnitude of it set in. Worry and fear and angst crept up his throat, threatening to spew all over his dirty boots. But he set his jaw, squared his shoulders and decided.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, Papa! Its positively stunning!"

Effie Trinket lifted her new friend from its box: a dark blue round wide-brimmed hat with a gigantic, lighter blue bow wrapped around its band.

The aging senator reached for his pretty daughter's chin. "Only the best for you, my sweet. Now try it on. I want to see you wear it to the parade."

The child did so, discarding the oversized sunflower already pinned to her honey colored curls.

The brim fell fashionably into her eyes, just enough. And the blue would match her sundress exquisitely. Elated, she rose from her seat to twirl for him, the skirt of her dress fluttering at her calves.

"Oh, don't you love it?" She practically asked for his compliment, stopping to pose like the women in Capitol Couture, hands primly at her sides.

"My darling, you look sublime," Senator Trinket said, rising from his chair to embrace his only child. "Your mother would've adored it."

Her delicate hand pressed against his arm. "Papa," she said, with a twinkling smile that meant he shouldn't speak of such sad things. "Today," she continued, "is cause for celebration. Now…"

She flitted back to where the hatbox had been discarded on the ottoman, replacing the treasure within, neatly folding the silver paper back over it and smoothing a hand over the lid, as if it were a pet.

"Ellanor is hosting a party to the view the Reapings, and I would love to attend. Could I?" She bobbed to his side once more. "I'd be home before midnight, of course and…"

The man stopped her, pressing a hand over her porcelain cheek. "Of course, my darling. I will be leaving for the President's party within the hour. I see no harm in giving you a night away from stuffy old politicians."

Effie laughed lightly. "Oh, Papa. You aren't stuffy in the slightest. Now, I must go dress for the party and be off soon." She pecked his cheek and flounced off, up the stairs to her bedroom.

Her pink party dress was ruffled and sequined with a tasteful neckline and an oversized plum-colored flower pinned to the shoulder. She primped her hair, pinning half over her perfect blonde curls up in an elaborate style and perfected her makeup. An hour and a half later, she was ready. She bid Beech, their servant goodnight for the evening and made her way to the Heavensbee home.

Ellanor's mother and father had left for the evening, and Plutarch had left for his own outings. However, the foyer and drawing room of the mansion were far from empty. Crowds of people glittered and glowed, as brightly as Effie herself in pastel gowns and silk suits.

The Heavensbee's house was trimmed in gold and dark woods with an enormous crystal chandelier glowing at the center of the wide ballroom. It was tasteful, Effie thought, but a bit old fashioned for her taste. Like fashion, interior design was in one day and out the next. Nevertheless, Ellanor and Plutarch were both certainly lucky to have bankers for parents, and the entire family was among the Capitol elite.

Spotting her friend several yards away, Effie let out a squeal. "Oh, Ella, darling!"

The girls hurried to one another, arms outstretched, though they didn't embrace. She kissed one cheek and then the other in greeting, and Ellanor reciprocated the gesture.

"My dear," Ella fawned, "So wonderful to see you. And your dress in just divine!"

Effie smiled and giggled, linking her arm through the red head's and stepping further into the throng of people.

"And you look smashing as well, my dear. Emerald is definitely your best color."

Ahead, Seneca Crane pulled her attention, dressed finely in a tailored suit and a flute of champagne in hand.

"Ooooh," Ellanor bubbled beside her. "He's been asking about you since he arrived. Potential," she teased, passing Effie a flute of fizzing liquid.

Effie scoffed politely at the suggestion. "Ella, no."

"No what?" Arvard Trustiss questioned, suddenly appearing at Ellanor's flank. He edged an arm around her waist, and before Effie could speak, Ella did for her.

"Effie's got a bit of a thing for Crane," she spoke casually, and Arvard cooed.

"I don't have any such…_thing!"_ Effie countered, clutching her jeweled fan with both hands. A gentle tap on her shoulder made her freeze.

She turned gracefully, face to face with the dashing man himself. His jet hair was coiffed neatly, a chic deep purple scarf wound over his suit jacket. He was a head taller than her, and of slim build. Not with the bulking muscles of District boys, but the sleek frame of a Capitol man.

"Miss Trinket," he addressed her, bringing one of her gloved hands to his lips. "Could I have this dance?" he asked.

"Of course," Effie agreed, her decorum not faltering one bit. Though she did glance back at Ella and Arvard, she didn't have time to catch their reactions before Seneca escorted her to the marble floor of the ballroom.

The steps of the dance were precise and slow enough that Seneca could bring her closer to his chest without being improper. "You look lovely this evening," he complimented her.

"Thank you," she answered, keeping elegantly in time with the music.

"You look lovely every evening that I see you," he continued.

"Yes," she giggled, "Well…" She blinked, mentally condemning herself for her inability to finish the sentence. How rude of her.

But Seneca saved her slip up with a chuckle. "Your earrings are made of sapphire."

He'd noticed. Effie felt a new puff of enthusiasm fill her chest. "Yes." She grinned.

"We match," he told her. She noticed the large oval gemstone set in a ring on his right hand which held her left one.

"Oh, indeed," she said. "It's a beautiful piece."

"It was my father's."

Oh yes. His father had fallen ill when he was very young, as had Effie's own mother. They had that in common, she supposed, however awful it was.

Seneca smiled down on her and they changed their pace when the orchestra changed rhythm. He inhaled briefly before speaking again. "Effie, I've been meaning to ask you something."

"Yes?" she chirped, hoping he couldn't detect the anticipation in her voice.

His lips parted, but before he could speak, the Anthem's loud bravado interrupted him, indicating the broadcast of the Reapings were to begin.

She pulled away from him gently, curtseying widely as he bowed to her. He followed her to search for Ella and Arvard once more. The pair were settled on one of the many sofas that had been arranged in the Heavensbee sitting room. Above them, high on the wall, the opening footage for the Reapings was projected.

She perched next to Ellanor, and Seneca sat on her other side. Though propriety allowed for Arvard and Ella to hold hands when they sat next to one another, Effie and Seneca sat straight in their seats, giving no hints that he'd nearly asked for her hand not five minutes before.

The Reapings started in Twelve first, and Effie nearly had to laugh at the state of it all. Several others around the room did just that. The faces of District Twelve were tired, gaunt, and filthy. Who would show up in such a state to a Reaping, she wondered. Their clothes were plain and obviously not bought new. The boys' collars drooped and the girls' socks were too large for their ankles. What a sight they were, and they didn't even have the respect to applaud for their tributes.

The two girls entered the Justice Building first, their faces blank as the cameras closed in on them. One girl, Maisy or something, had hair that matched Ella's, though it frizzed in the mid-spring humidity. The first boy was a young one, just twelve years old, and he didn't even look into the lens before passing. The last tribute startled her at first.

The look in his eyes was wild and unfamiliar. Almost like an animal. His hair was neat and his face was clean, and it could nearly be said that he was an attractive young fellow, if Effie liked that sort of rough-and-tumble type. He glared into the lens, reeling close to the camera menacingly before he disappeared from frame and the screen cut back to Caesar Flickerman's close-up.

Effie felt suddenly ill, and her hand went to her stomach. Perhaps she'd had too much champagne. Or tightened her corset too tightly.

Someone in the room guffawed. "There's reason as to why they never win. Did you see them? The clothes, the dirt. Its filthy!" Several others giggled.

Ella reached over to clutch her friend's hand. "Are you alright, dearest?"

Effie nodded quickly. "Of course. I suppose I need some air."

She stood, tiptoeing to the balcony, leaving Seneca behind, gazing after her quizzically.

-O-O-O-

The morning of the parade, Effie took a long bubble bath in jasmine scented bubbles and polished her nails neatly with a color that would match her dress. Ella had been allowed to accompany her and Senator Trinket to the Parliament Box, and the girls chatted on the phone earlier that morning to arrange what they would wear. It was considered chic now to match outfits with a friend or a sister. Since they practically considered themselves so anyways, they agreed that it was a wonderful idea.

The girls had decided on blue sundresses with flowers on the bodices and stripes on the skirts. Effie had chosen to adorn hers with a belt of white silk flowers and a navy tulle underskirt. And of course, her new hat would not be forgotten.

Her father smiled at her entrance into the breakfast room. "No blue hair to match?" he asked.

Effie laughed. "Father, natural coloring of hair is fashionable now," she said as if he should've known.

"Ah, pardon me," he laughed.

After their breakfast, they left to meet Ella at her house and made their way to the City Circle.

The girls fanned themselves in their seats, sipping cocktails, pointing out people in the stands with particularly fashionable—or unfashionable—outfits.

Effie admired the crowd, already cheering and waving for their favorite tributes. Dozens of times, she'd been in this very section of the stands with her father and his colleagues. It never grew any less exciting. To her, this event was better than her very own birthday.

To her, the Hunger Games were many things. The Games united Panem in a way nothing else could. And what an honor it was to be selected to represent a country that gave so generously to its citizens. The Games were a time to remember, to be grateful for the way things were and the way things would continue to be.

She watched the chariots roll in, and the crowd grew louder and boisterous for the first few Districts. She and Ella clapped politely and pointed at the District Two costumes that gleamed silver.

The next Districts were impressive, their costumes innovative and fresh.

At the end of the line, District Twelve's chariot approached. The four tributes were dressed in black from head to toe. The boys' hair had been slicked back and painted with black streaks. They wore no shirts, only black vests and slacks peppered with black stones to emulate bits of coal. Neither appeared to be very happy.

The girls had their hair pinned up with black diamond hair chips, and Effie thought it was actually a rather pretty style. Their dresses were similar to the boys' outfits, adorned with black stones, but the sleeves of their dressed were made of yellow, orange, and red fathers, imitating flames. The feathers even danced in the wind as the chariots passed.

When the chariots rounded the Circle, Effie caught the eyes of the eldest boy tribute. They were steel grey and harsh. The force of it made her glance away for several second and back up again. In that time, she read his name from the program in her lap.

Haymitch Abernathy.

Even from the distance, she could see him shaking, his knuckles white, his eyes lit with pure malice.

Then, they focused on her bold blue hat, as if it offended.

Effie noticed something she hadn't before. A blue ribbon tied around his wrist.

"Darling, what in the world is the matter?" Ella cooed beside her. Effie hadn't noticed she'd been tightening her grip on her cocktail glass, her shoulders tensing.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, taking her eyes away from the boy. "I was…" She cleared her throat politely. "I was admiring the District Eleven girls' hairstyles. They're beautiful, don't you think?"

She removed her hat and held it neatly in her lap. When she looked back towards the chariots, she couldn't see Abernathy anymore, and the President's loud speech above her took her attention instead.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Taking liberties here to not describe the games as they were in the books.

-O-O-O-

Of course, he couldn't make it through the Games without killing. He'd been naïve to believe he could get by on sheer mental strategy alone. It had worked for the first hour. But now deep in the trees, with another man's blood on his hands and a bloodied knife on the grass before him, reality had clicked for Haymitch.

He tried not to show emotion, steeling himself for the cameras that were certainly watching. His stomach had no such nerve, and he doubled over, vomiting bile before he could swallow.

He snatched his knife up again, distancing himself from the dead body and the hovercraft that had appeared to scoop it up.

Haymitch couldn't even remember the boy's name.

Jean had died during the bloodbath. He'd run past her corpse on his way to find a hiding spot.

Maysilee had disappeared quickly and Harvey was presumably dead or hiding. He was small, young, and Haymitch doubted he stood a chance for very long.

He righted the backpack he'd snatched from the cornucopia and continued on, deeper into the trees.

The sun was pink in the sky when he found a meadow. It was wide, open, and empty and he decided not to linger long. The expanse was blanketed with flowers of every kind.

Instantly, his thoughts turned to Iva before he could help himself.

In the spring, at the edge of the Seam, wild flowers sprung up from the otherwise fruitless ground. In all colors and types. One afternoon he'd brought her with him while he hunted. Iva was never shy about picking up dead game, helping him tug out the dirty arrows. It was almost comical to see her in her worn dresses and her miner's boots stuffing game into his sack for him. But a wife that could handle, skin, and cook game was a good wife.

That particular afternoon, the flowers had caught her eye and she'd settled down in a patch of them. He'd laughed at her, the needle and thread she usually held in her hands replaced with a loop of flowers.

She'd crowned him with it, and he stole a kiss from her. Their very first one.

He smiled at the memory, but briefly before he hunted through the field of color for any flowers that were edible.

Dusk seemed to come too quick, and Haymitch wondered if this was planned. As it grew closer to evening, he had gathered berries and herbs. He sucked on a few of the Chicory flowers he found in the meadow until the mere flavor of them and the thickness of his saliva while he chewed them made him even more hungry. He spat one to the side, marching onward to find cover.

A twig snapped behind him, and he ducked silently around a tree. Whoever it was ran right past him, their breath high and heavy. A girl, he figured, by the steps and the pitch of their breath. A male came next, quieter and heavier on the lush grass.

There was a scuffle, then a piercing scream.

Strangled.

"NO!" a female voice begged.

Haymitch cringed at the sound of some sort of weapon being slung again and again against a body,

He felt bile rising in his stomach again.

It certainly didn't take much time for hell to break loose around here.

Even though he was sure he was concealed, the male tribute came sauntering by again, closer, this time breathless. Haymitch could see his hulking silhouette in the moonlight. The boy gave his hand a flick, and Haymitch felt several wet droplets splatter his face just as the cannon sounded.

Minutes passed. Silence. Then there was another movement. Another person running nearby.

For a moment, Haymitch thought he was dreaming, reliving the murder again. Until a body slammed against his front, knocking the wind from his chest. When he opened his eyes, Maysilee Donner's green ones were illuminated in the rising moon.

"Haymitch!" she hissed.

He braced a hand against her mouth. "Shut. Up!" he whispered harshly.

She slammed a fist against his chest in protest. He turned, pressing her body roughly against the tree, holding her there with his full weight.

She dissented again, kicking his shins, fearing he was going to hurt her.

"I don't want to hurt you. Just shut the hell up. Don't even breathe." He pressed her harder against the tree, listening.

Nothing followed her, and finally he released her.

"Someone just got killed over here. Its not safe." He backed away from her, shifting his backpack on his shoulder again. He turned, retreating into the darkness. When she followed, he looked back at her.

"What are you doing?" he asked quietly.

"Going with you."

"No," he said, stalking off again.

"Why?" she whispered in the darkness, stepping in front of him.

"Because I said." He dodged around her. "Go away, Maysilee."

"Don't be an ass," she said.

He nearly laughed back at her before retreating off into the trees.

-O-O-O-

The five of them—Ella, Arvard, Effie, Seneca, and Plutarch—sat in the Heavensbee garden, sipping their tea. Ella and Effie fanned their faces with jeweled fans. The boys had abandoned their suit jackets in the spring heat. The topic of the day was the murder of Sachi Trist, the District 5 tribute who had been stoned to death last night by the only surviving male from 11. He was huge, brutish, and strong. It certainty wasn't the most violent death to be broadcasted, but it was the most scandalous.

"I really think Abernathy might stand a chance here. It'll be good to see a Victor from an outlying District," Plutarch remarked.

Seneca snorted. "Doubtful. He's lasted a long while, and he'd cunning. I'll give him that."

Plutarch looked agitated and made an indignant noise over his tea. "You're always so critical of the Districts, aren't you Seneca? They're citizens too."

"Hardly," Seneca retorted. "Why else are they chosen to die for our entertainment?"

Effie felt ill all over again.

"Stop it," Ellanor hissed to Plutarch, glaring. "Mother doesn't like your ideals, you know that. So keep them to yourself."

"That talk is…forbidden," Arvard added.

Plutarch just smirked and stared into his teacup.

"I rather like the District 12 girl," Effie piped up. "She's good."

Ella agreed. "And if she does win, her hair color will certainly be all the rage. I'll be ahead of the game," she said, primping her crimson locks with the hand that held her closed fan.

Plutarch made a noise again. Effie ignored it.

"Apart from the Games, there's a new lounge opened near the center of town. We should go," Seneca suggested.

Effie agreed that this was marvelous. His hand reached to pinch her calf beneath the table when he dropped his napkin.

-O-O-O-

She giggled, stumbling forward over her dainty shoes. Luckily, Seneca's arm around her waist supported her long enough to press her against the stone wall behind the lounge. "We should get you home," he said. But she wasn't too drunk to be deaf to what he was suggesting.

"Seneca Crane, do you take me for that kind of lady?" She hiccupped again.

He didn't have time answer before Ella came out the back door. "What are you two doing out here?" she said, scurrying down the metal stairs. "Getting cozy in the alleyway like common riff-raff!"

Seneca backed away, though kept a hold on her. "I'll take her home, Ella. No need to worry about it."

He led her to a cab and helped her inside. Effie gave her address before Seneca could interject. Though her head was swimming and the night lights of the city were far too bright, she did have standards. And manners.

At the steps of her house, Seneca kissed her cheek. "Be careful up the stairs. And be quiet. I don't want you getting in trouble, your father hunting me down claiming I made you drunk."

Effie waved a hand. "I'm of age. Besides…"

Before she could finish, Seneca kissed her. It was quick and soft, but she saw stars. This time it had nothing to do with the amount of wine she'd consumed.

"Oh," she breathed, and he laughed.

"Goodnight, Miss Trinket," he said, releasing her and leaving her there on the doorstep. When she turned to watch him slip back inside the cab, the colors of the lights, of his deep plum suit, of his sea green eyes, seemed a bit brighter.


	4. Chapter 4

Starving. Starving.

He thought he knew everything about starving.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

His belly felt like it was eating itself. And water.

Water.

What did that even taste like?

He stood from his spot under a tree, pressing himself to move forward. He needed to find something. If there was anything.

Last night, he'd counted nine left. Four careers: three males and a girl. Himself and Maysilee, and three others.

It was certainly a record. Thirty-nine dead in a week and a half. At least he thought it was a week and a half.

The Gamemakers were messing with the days and nights, forcing them to loose track of time. The sun would be at noon, and then at the east again, and back to the west. He wasn't sure how they did it, but it was a neat trick, he had to admit.

Some days were only a few hours long. Some seemed endless.

The blue ribbon on his hand was no longer blue. It was more of a disturbing brown, stained with his blood and the blood of others. He slid his fingers around it, holding on.

-O-O-O-

He didn't have to wait long until he was found. He'd been looking for water. Walking, really, to pass time when they'd found him.

Three Careers. All male. The last remaining three.

He drew his knife, showing his weapon before the first one lunged. Haymitch was knocked to the ground easily, but took a stab at the boys arm, catching him off guard. He struck again and again, twisting his wrist, creating a giant gush of blood from the boy's bicep.

The second boy took a fistful of his hair, yanking his head backwards. If either of them had a knife, it would've been all to easy to slit his throat. But Haymitch was quick,, slicing the boy above him in the face. It was grumesome, but Haymitch didn't have time to look at his handy work. The injured boy beneath him buried a foot in his stomach, knocking him backwards.

He scrambled only a moment, able to take a swipe at the boy with the bloodied face again, this time catching his arm. He leapt to his feet, burying the knife deep in the boys throat, finally finishing him off.

The third hadn't struck yet, and Haymitch wondered where he'd gone. But briefly, because the second boy was reaching to knock the knife from his hand.

Weaponless, Haymitch took the blow to his face from the boy's only good arm. The crimson liquid that splurted from his nose and splattered the other tribute would've been beautiful if it hadn't been his own blood.

A gruesome yell escaped his throat and he sprung, knocking the boy to the ground. His hands gripped the boy's throat, eliciting a manic, panicked scream from him. He squeezed harder, choking the oxygen from his lungs. He saw red. Red everywhere.

The boy choked again, trying to rip Haymitch's hands from his throat, but it was too late. The cannon fired twice just as the third boy sprung onto Haymitch's back out of nowhere.

He rolled, landing an elbow in the boy's stomach, able to get away long enough to search for his knife in the grass. The boy tackled him again, his own hand landing over Haymitch's just inches from the knife. With his own, he pushed Haymitch's fingers back on themselves, snapping the bones. Haymitch screamed.

Having the advantage, the boy grabbed Haymitch's knife and tugged him backwards by the hair, onto his knees. He looped an arm around him, pressing the blade to Haymitch's throat.

He didn't fight back anymore.

This was it.

He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking only of Iva Fennwick's pretty blonde hair.

Suddenly, the boy's arm grew slack around him, until he fell backwards completely.

Haymitch turned, spotting Maysilee just a few yards away, a poisonous dart gun in one hand.

"We'd last longer, the two of us," she said.

It took only a moment for his pulse to slow and his mind to right itself.

"I guess you just proved that," he said before the cannon fired.

-O-O-O-

"Ow!"

"Oh, shut it."

She pressed at nose with the bandages that had been in his backpack. "Definitely broken," she said. "Though, your hand's not. Good thing."

He humphed. But finally said, "Thank you…for that."

She shrugged and moved onto her knees, holding the bandages under his nose. "Hold that there," she said, and he did.

She backed off, moving to lean against a tree across from him. She was silent, watching the birds above them. They were pretty, pink, and unlike anything either of them had seen.

When her eyes set back on him, he was taken aback at the look in them. So sad, so very lonely. Scared. Hungry. Remorseful.

Haymitch didn't know what to do, what to say.

His mind was thrust to the two boys he'd killed earlier today. It was vehement, ferocious. Not at all courageous, as it would certainly be presented to the citizens of Panem. His own hands had murdered. Out of survival, not defense.

The same emotions she felt were his own, and nothing could change it.

Instead of speaking, Haymitch smiled at her, and hoped it was enough.

It wasn't.

-O-O-O-

Maysilee was humming. He picked up the song quickly. An old song his mother would sing when Dad was still alive. He could remember the lyrics, but barely.

Maysilee helped him to recall, singing now.

"Tomorrow will be kinder, I know, I've seen it before. A brighter day is coming my way. Yes, tomorrow will be kinder."

She grew quiet. All Haymitch pictured was his mother, on their porch knitting, singing while their father smiled upon her like she hung the moon.

After several moments, they sat in silence, starving, thirsty, nothing to talk of.

It had been days. Lonely days. Even though they were together now, it didn't help the thought that eventually their alliance would have to be broken.

He heard Maysilee softly crying, but said nothing.

After a few minutes passed, he stood. "I think we should move."

"And go where?" He pretended not to notice that she wiped away several tears.

"The arena has to end somewhere, doesn't it?" he said, picking up the backpack.

-O-O-O-

The festivities surrounding the Games were endless, much to Effie's delight. This was the first year she'd been of age and allowed to attend parties late into the evening with sweet-tasting champagne and endless desserts and hors d'oeuvres.

Of course, the company was better than the food; Seneca had formally asked to court her, and now Effie was hardly seen without him.

She and Ella had convinced the boys to a double date, and the four now sat at dinner after an evening at the theatre.

Arvard and Seneca were both distracted at the replay of the Games playing on a screen at the far corner of the restaurant.

"I'll give Plutarch the benefit of the doubt here. The two from Twelve definitely have something going for them," Seneca said, actually sounding impressed. "Their alliance is a smart one, even though it makes them easier to kill once someone kinds them out. They'll never turn on one another. Unless they're forced to."

There was something in his voice that made Effie shiver, but it was fleeting, and his hand on her knee drew her attention back to the pure elation she felt when they were together.

"We're trying to have a proper night out, here, boys. Honestly, couldn't you tear your eyes away for just a few moments?" Ella asked over the rim of her wine glass.

"Its down to the final six," Arvard complained. "Besides, they'll be airing the interviews soon."

Effie perked up. "Oh, that's my favorite part!"

Seneca smiled on her, leaning close to peck her cheek.

"Oh," she exclaimed, looking at him. "I forgot to tell you. When the Games end, there's a party at the President's mansion. My father's asked me to invite you. The date is tentative, obviously, but would you like to go?"

He nodded. "Of course, darling. I'd rather like to meet your father, anyways. His thoughts on fostering unity among the Districts is rather…interesting to me. I'd like to discuss it with him."

"Wonderful," she said, not bothering to pause to ponder what any of that had meant. Instead, she was content to lean against his shoulder, looking up at the screen to watch the District 1 families being interviewed.


	5. Chapter 5

She moved closer, huddling deeper into her parka. He would've told her to back off if he hadn't been freezing himself. Her head rested on his shoulder, but he didn't move away. He leaned his head down on hers, if only to warm up his right ear for a moment.

"You know what?" she asked, her breath shaking.

"What?"

"I could really go for some pine needle tea right now." She laughed.

He did too. Pine needle tea. The weak, bittersweet stuff. A delicacy of sorts in District 12. "I'd make you some…if making a fire wouldn't get us killed."

He'd meant for it to be light-hearted, but it had the opposite effect. Maysilee grew tense against him.

They grew silent again, for several minutes until finally she asked, "Do you miss Iva?"

He really hadn't thought about how he missed her. He knew she was hundreds of miles away, and he'd thought about her, of course. He remembered things about her all the time. But when he'd left 12, he'd left with the assurance that he'd never see her again. Feelings of longing had been suppressed. It was more painful to miss her than to remember her. Missing her might give him too much hope.

But he answered, "Yes," anyways.

"I'm sorry," she said, moving away from him. "It only just occurred to me that I'm…"

But he reached out for her again, pulling her back to his side. It was too cold to be separated. Besides, something at the pit of his stomach craved any sort of human contact.

"It's fine," he said flatly. "Too damn cold."

Her crimson hair was warm against his neck and cheek when she settled her head there. It was comforting. It reminded him of home.

She fell asleep there, with her face buried in the slick material of his blue parka. He didn't sleep. He couldn't shake the memory of Iva Fennwick from his mind, and the thought that no more would he be this close to the girl he loved.

-O-O-O-

He urged her forward, certain that they must be reaching the end of the arena soon.

But still she grumbled. "What is it your looking for anyways?"

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Don't know. If there isn't anything, it was worth the shot. Besides, no one's this far out. We haven't seen anyone for days."

It wasn't a uplifting observation.

Just as the sun was setting behind them, they reached a cliff. Haymitch stared over the edge, down at the fresh green foliage below. This was the end.

"That's it," Maysilee said. "There's nothing here. Let's go back."

"No," he said flatly, unconvinced.

Maysilee groaned softly. Silence stretched between them, straining. Still, Haymitch stared below.

"I'm leaving," she confirmed.

"Fine."

He didn't glance back, but head her boots against the lush grass and rough rock.

This couldn't be it. He knew it wasn't. There was something to it that he must be missing.

Turning away, his boot kicked a pebble over the edge of the cliff, just to hear it drop.

But as he began to leave, there was a buzz and the sound of rock against rock. _Chink chink._ The pebble had bounced back to its original spot, now sitting proudly next to a larger rock.

Curious, Haymitch glanced over the cliff again. No one below.

He took the larger rock, chucking it down. The buzz came again and the rock returned on its original trajectory. He grinned to himself, but the discovery was interrupted.

A strained scream echoed over the wide meadow behind him. Maysilee.

He took off in a sprint, calling out her name. Not that he needed help finding her. Her screams made the blood in his veins run cold.

She was on the ground when he found her, surrounded by a pack of the candy-pink birds they'd seen days ago. But they were spotted in red now, streaked over their wings and beaks as they pecked at her hands she'd thrown over her head.

He watched her, on her knees, shrieking in a cloud of pink feathers humming around her.

When she fell onto her side, he watched one bird aim perfectly at her throat, spearing its beak there. Once. Twice.

Finally, his feet that had turned to lead allowed him to run for her. Immediately, the birds fluttered off, vanishing, squawking into the trees.

Her face was streaked in red, her hands and fingers pecked and bitten to unrecognizable forms. She reached out for him, gasping in panic and desperate need for oxygen.

He grabbed her hand, ignoring the slick and gnarled feeling of her skin or what was left of it He leaned over her. "You're ok, you're ok," he said hurriedly, not having a clue what to do.

Her eyes were bright and wide next to the ruby-colored streaks that ran over her face like gruesome war paint.

His hand came to her hair, lifting her head to his lap, which was an awful idea. Her other hand clutched her throat, trying to staunch the flow of blood that bubbled up from the movement.

She was trying to speak, but couldn't get a breath.

"Shhh…" He soothed her, smoothing her hair away from her face. "Its going to be ok," he said in vain. His only friend was slipping through his fingers and he couldn't stop it.

"My mother," she managed.

"Shh…" he said again.

But something in Maysilee's eyes told him it was important. They grew wider, grew more distant as she tried to speak again. "My mother."

But that was it. She was gone, her wide green eyes staring blankly into the trees.

He bent his head, shielding his face from the cameras. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hurt something—someone, but there had been enough of that recently.

Tear teemed in his eyes, but he used his parka to wipe them away. He couldn't do this. Not with them watching him.

The hand that had been in her hair was less bloody, but it was still shaking against his lips when he pressed three fingers to his mouth and then held them over Maysilee's heart.

-O-O-O-

The blood wouldn't come off. It was creased into his hands, glowing bright and ugly and repulsive.

It coated the handle of his knife when he took a stab at the District 1 girl's eye, and the anger and revulsion he'd been harboring for the past two weeks materialized in a demented scream. He didn't bother trying not to feel release from it, trying not to feel satisfied as he slung the round red orb off of his knife and into the grass. He let himself relish in it.

The moment was fleeting. Next, he was feeling a warm gush of blood from his stomach that was almost comforting. When he reached down to clamp his hand there, his fingers caught the cold head of an ax being tugged from his gut.

His knife was lost in the grass, his vision swimming.

But even in this state, he had the thought. He smiled up at her bloody face, dragging his feet forward.

It was a slow procession to the cliff. She tailed him, with a hand over her empty eye socket and her axe dragging the ground, ripping up grass and flowers in its path.

It would've been comical, the two of them inching their way up the rock, both holding themselves closed.

The pain was no longer soporific. It throbbed, his whole abdomen aching as he trudged on. It felt like someone had tried to dissect him. His organs felt numb, but there was a gaping hole in his stomach that burned like a ring of wildfire.

He was hollow.

It knocked him to his knees, holding himself together with his hands.

At her mercy, he bowed his head, missing the axe she'd thrown, watching it sail over the edge of the cliff instead.

When it appeared again, he didn't have to turn to know what had happened. Instead, he grinned.

-O-O-O-

Twenty-five stitches. Well, it was better than he expected. He was shacked up a Captiol hospital room for two weeks after the Games, letting doctor's cold hands probe him and sew him together again.

No one visited him. No one offered him a phone call home. Not that it would've mattered. Neither his mother nor the Fennwicks owned a telephone. He slept mostly, under the thick fog of morphling. When he couldn't sleep, he laid there, staring up at the flat white ceiling, drowning out the sounds of the beeping machines around him.

It didn't feel victorious at all. It felt like swallowing a mouthful of sand and glass. Dry and void.

He didn't even want to go home. He didn't want to be here. He let himself wish he was back in the arena, that he would've been the one to be skewered in the neck by a pretty pink songbird. Even that thought didn't feel brave. He wasn't imagining it as a way to save Maysilee, but as a way to save himself. Because in reality, she was the one that was better off.

He knew what would happen now. He knew the worst was only starting. It would never end. It never did.

-O-O-O-

He was an absolute dream. Effie simply couldn't help but be enthralled by the perfect gentleman he was. It had only been a few days, and she was certain she was in love. Though of course, she didn't admit it to anyone. Not even Ella. She'd tell her she was getting in too deep, as Effie had a tendency to do.

Maybe she knew it all along, but she couldn't hold herself back from it. It was all too easy to fall for his charm, for the jet-black locks and dazzling green eyes.

The night of the President's party, Effie dressed in a ruffled teal party dress—that she'd planned to wear days in advance. Her hair was pinned up prettily, streaked with darker teal to match the dress.

They'd be crowning the Victor tonight. The party had been delayed two weeks to allow him to heal. He'd suffered a brutal wound in the Games, and needed the time to complete surgery and rest. But tonight he'd appear to the President's guests to be crowned for his valor.

Effie had been to the President's mansion many a time with her father, but Seneca had never seen it, and he was briefly lost in the opulence of it.

He'd stolen a kiss in the library. Thankfully the room was too dim for him to see her blush. "You're beautiful tonight," he'd told her, taking a teal-colored curl between his fingers. She felt her knees weaken and insisted they join the rest of the party once more.

The two danced for quite a while, before they took their champagne glasses and joined Effie's father.

The two men were lost in conversation about politics while Effie gazed at the bubbles in her glass, bored.

Finally, the band on the dance floor struck up the anthem, and attention was drawn to a bright light illuminating the balcony where Snow and Haymitch Abernathy stood.

Again, Effie was taken aback by his eyes. Hard, distant. Unfocusing. She watched his jaw clench and unclench.

"Welcome, welcome, everyone," Snow began, gesturing broadly over the crowd. "Tonight, we share the honor of hosting our newest Victor of the 50th annual Hunger Games."

The crowd cheered.

"As the Victor of the Second Quarter Quell, Haymitch Abernathy has showed great endurance, strength, and courage."

Effie caught Haymitch's dark scowl before it melted away.

"With a cunning mind and strategy, he has conquered forty-seven others for the crown. Join me in applauding him for his victory."

President Snow turned to him, clapping with the others. But Haymitch turned as well, facing the President now. It was all procedure for the crowning, but the boy looking to be in some sort of intense pain. As if he were having trouble holding himself together.

The crown was of great beauty. A simple gold band with elaborate filigree around it. It glowed against the boy's dark hair, illuminated by the spotlight like fire.

Effie watched on bated breath with the rest of the crowd. President Snow took Haymitch's hand in a friendly gesture before leaning forward to whisper something in the boy's ear.

When he leaned away, the boy's face was visible again and it looked as if he might be ill. His eyes were hooded and his face had gone pale.

He was ushered back into the mansion with the great swell of cheers and applause from the crowd at his back.

"Strange," Seneca said, turning back to her after a moment.

"Indeed," Effie agreed, but thought no further of it and pressed her champagne flute to her lips.


	6. Chapter 6

"Celebrate while you can, young man. I have a feeling your return to 12 won't be so joyous," the President had said.

Haymitch nearly vomited then and there in front of everyone. His vision swam, and the red filter fell over his eyes again. Once the doors closed, he sprung.

His hands were on Snow's throat, and he was shouting awful, disgusting, foul things.

The butt of a Peacekeeper's rifle knocked him into darkness. He woke up in the hospital bed he'd been occupying for the last fourteen days, with his District 12 escort, looking somber and silent, holding a train ticket back home.

Now he stood in the doorway of his old home, scanning the empty space. Every bit of their belongings had been emptied and disposed of. So where were Jem and his mother?

He backed out of the house, a sick feeling overtaking him. The Fennwicks were three shacks down. When he reached the dirt path leading to their doorway, Iva's father opened the door for him before he reached the porch.

"We were expecting you," he said evenly. There was something else there that Haymitch couldn't place.

"Where are they?" Haymitch asked calmly, peeking around the taller man's shoulder into the house. "Where's all of our…"

It hit him when he saw Mrs. Fennwick at their kitchen table, her back to him, her thin hands pressed into the rough wood. The seven children perched on the floor and the stairs, staring back at him with their blank, gaunt faces.

He pushed his way past Mr. Fennwick, entering the cold and dank cottage. "Where's…?" he said again. The air in the room suddenly seemed thin. It was difficult to breathe. Difficult to look at Mrs. Fennwick's crooked form, bent over the table.

"Where are they?" Haymitch asked, his voice strained even in his own ears. "Where's Iva?"

He didn't need an answer. He just wanted to hear someone say it.

"Dee," Mr. Fennsick said, addressing his wife. She rose from her spot and silently, almost mechanically, and herded the children up the stairs.

He turned, facing the older man, only just now noticing the weathered creases on his cheeks and forehead, highlighted with coal dust, still unwashed from a day of work. The man planted his feet, squared his shoulders. But his head hung, unable to even look up at the boy before him.

"They were burned at the stake," he said softly, but in the room his voice seemed flat, hanging there in the dense air.

Haymitch felt the axe wound in his stomach throb hotly.

"All of them were taken out to the square and burned. After that, Peacekeepers raided your house and got rid of everything. I don't know what they did with…" But he stopped. The story wasn't finished, he was just too weary to continue.

Muteness fell.

"Did he watch?" Haymitch didn't dare look up into the man's eyes, but he knew he was watching him now.

"What?"

"Jem. Did Jem have to watch?" he asked bleakly.

"No. But we did. Jem was led out blindfolded…just a few minutes after your mother…" He trailed off again.

Something rose in Haymitch's throat. His muscles grew tight as he tried hard not to reach over and sling everything off the small hutch next to the stove.

Mr. Fennwick's voice held more power when he spoke again. "It was all a demonstration. A spectacle to prove their power and punish all of us for your trick with the axe."

"Stop," Haymitch spat, just wanting the room to stop spinning. His fingers dug into his scalp, tugging at his hair that was already coated with a layer of coal dust.

"We weren't even allowed to…" her father started again, but Haymitch's revolve was long gone.

The ceramic bowl and water pitcher shattered against the dusty wood floor in shards of white and blue. The rusting kettle on the stove was knocked free in the wake of it. "I don't want to hear anything else!" Haymitch roared, rattling the already cracked windows of the shack.

Upstairs, he heard Hollis and Tally, the twin, crying softly.

He closed his eyes, holding his breath. The room was still and silent. There wasn't even a wind passing through the still open door.

He flinched away from his touch when her father pressed a small, metal object into his hand before passing him for the stairs.

He opened his palm, revealing a shiny new key. The tag that was looped around the hole was printed with his escort's signature and a cheery welcome to his new home. To his Victor's mansion. They must've delivered it along with the death sentences. How fitting.

-O-O-O-

_It was agonizing. Watching the flames inch up over her socks, startling small and just licking the porcelain skin of her legs. She flinched at first, but stilled herself. When the fire reached the hem of her dress, it caught quickly, led upwards by the streaks of kerosene on her front, her arms, her hair._

_She was engulfed in a gown of red, orange, yellow. Her chin tilted upwards to the sky, like a queen. Regal, noble, fearless._

_The stink of charred bodies filled the square, taking over his senses completely as he watched her liquefy._

_Her hands were visible through the flames, dripping red like Maysilee Donner's._

"_My mother."_

_The voice was loud, amplified. A hissing whisper._

"_My mother."_

-O-O-O-

He landed on his elbow, falling head first from the bed, his legs tangled in the duvet that was saturated with dust. He lay there a long time, disoriented, thinking maybe the tender skin on his abdomen had finally torn open and maybe he'd bleed out on the cold wood floor and be put out of his misery. But there was no such luck.

He could still smell the flesh. Still feel the choking in the back of his throat when he breathed her in.

Blindly, he grasped for a bottle on the floor and yanked it open with his teeth. He took one long chug, letting the burning trickle down his throat, extinguishing the taste of smoke.

Gasping, he breathed finally the soggy, heavy air of his new home. A pretty old house with lots of grimy windows, cozy fireplaces in the bedrooms, dust so thick on the furniture it was basically a glorified chimney. And maybe it was. He would've liked it to be.

He kicked the duvet away from his tangled feet and laid against the floor, holding the bottle of white liquor. It had been in the cabinets downstairs that were brittle and creaky from lack of use. So he figured why not.

It kept him warm. It kept him numb.

In the morning, the doorbell rang. He didn't have time to make it downstairs, but he saw the widower Donner retreating, hands stuffed in his worn wool coat. On the doorstep was a basket of two raw potatoes, and two dead squirrels wrapped in ratty burlap.

As he cooked the squirrel into a stew, he let himself think it over for the first time.

Maysilee Donner's mother had died during childbirth of their second child. A girl that hadn't lived past five.

Now Ellis Donner lived just as lonely as Haymitch himself did. Had it been a gesture to let him know that he understood? That they were both now alone, solitary?

He brushed the thought away, but something else occurred to him.

If Maysilee's mother had died so many years ago, why had she called out for her in the forest, after the blush-colored birds had skewered her?

Had she seen her somewhere in the foggy middle between the living and the dead?

He laughed. Laughed right over the pan of squirrel and potatoes simmering on his new eletrical stove.

She hadn't. Because visions of that kind didn't exist. If they could, what had Iva seen? Jem, or his mother? Had they seen him? Had they seen anything besides smoke burning their eyes and felt anything besides their bones crumbling?

He knocked the pan away, scattering the half-cooked bits to the floor.

-O-O-O-

_She was holding him. Just holding him. She was so warm. Her frame was small in his arms, but not from lack of food or nourishment. Her dress was a vibrant blue, like the sky. Like cornflowers. It was soft under his fingers when he touched her sleeve._

_So warm._

_His cheek was pillowed on her bosom, her fingers in his hair._

_She was singing softly. Like she used to. A sweet song about lilies, flowers, songbirds. He toyed with her frizzled grey hair that had come loose from the pins, hanging in a silver wave over her shoulder._

_When she stopped singing, her fingers kept moving, tracing the back of his neck, over his shoulder._

"_I'm sorry," he whispered. Whimpered. "I'm so sorry."_

"_Shhh…"_

"_I'm…" he began, before she dissolved. The ashes burned his skin, sticking him to him, burrowing in his skin. _

-O-O-O-

He jolted himself awake, his lips still moving in apology. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

It took several gulps of heavy, sooty air to calm him down.


	7. Chapter 7

She pulled away from their kiss, her lipstick smeared and her eyes twinkling with yearning. Seneca only laughed at her, tracing the outline of her jaw with his fingertips.

"You…" she stammered, making him laugh again at her loss for words.

"You're cute when you're blushing."

Effie laughed in response, but the comment struck her oddly. She hadn't ever heard him compliment anything other than her beauty. And of course she agreed. But there was more to her than that—at least she thought so.

She drew away from him, pressing a hand to the red silk shirt over his chest.

"What is it?"

She shook her head, her newly pink-dyed locks bouncing against her cheeks. "Nothing." Her smile was unfaltering, so he asked no further questions.

When he walked her home that night, she turned away when he kissed her. Just to show him how dissatisfied she was.

-O-O-O-

Effie hiccupped, blotting at her streaky mascara with Ella's pink handkerchief.

"These things do happen," Ella said, kneeling before her friend where she was perched on a cushioned bench in the bathroom of a Capitol concert hall.

"I don't want it to," Effie said pathetically, as if wishing would change it at her whim.

Ella just laughed, a high-pitched hum of indignation through her nose.

"Effie, dear. Don't you realize it? Its what we're for. Being beautiful, continuing the illusion that their ivory towers will never fall. They dress us up, tell us what is in and what is out, and its all to keep us occupied." Ella's fingers tightened around her friend's. "Its to keep us quiet. To keep us from wanting something more."

Effie stared down at her with bleary eyes. She'd never heard anyone speak like this. Never heard anyone question the routine of their lives. No one ever thought twice about it.

Seneca had brushed her off this evening, dancing with other ladies, even buying one a rainbow-colored cocktail at the bar. It was stupid, and it felt like an insignificant problem. She knew it. But the way he'd laughed in her face when she'd asked him about it; that's what had bothered her. Capitol men were—more often than not—known to have more than one lady on their arm at a time. It wasn't that he'd ignored her, or even that he'd embarrassed her in front of her friends.

It bothered her that he was a fool about it. So sarcastic and crude, as if she weren't worth more than the cost of her new mint green party dress. But then, they were all fools. It bothered her even more that Ella was right, and that it had taken her so long to realize it.

"Though," Ella said as she stood and turned to face the mirror over the sink. "Things could be worse." She primped her fern-colored wig. "I suppose that's why we've all decided to keep quiet about it so long."

She smiled kindly at Effie over her shoulder. "Come here, dear, let's fix your makeup."

-O-O-O

Within the month she had all but forgotten Ella's words, back into the unconscious routine of the Capitol. Though she and Seneca had parted their ways, no one really seemed to notice.

She hadn't wanted to become aware of the frivolity of her life. The absolute pettiness of it all. But she had. And there was nothing she could do to change it. So instead, she decided to perpetuate it. To throw herself even further into the world of beauty, fashion, and style. It was easier than facing it.

And in several years, she'd be so numbed by it all, that she would need to be reminded of the fragility of their lives. So she painted on her smile and applied for training at the Escort Academy, a job that would thrust her into the spotlight of one of the most celebrated events of the year. A job where maybe she'd be more than a pretty face—or at least she told herself erroneously to make herself feel better about it. On the morning of her first class, she arrived promptly and perfectly dressed. But no amount of makeup or haute clothes could control her destiny.

-O-O-O-

She was perfectly pretty and still considered youthful by Capitol standards, even at the age of twenty-six. And yet, she was here, in the drab, colorless District 12 to pluck two young citizens from obscurity and bring one of them to the fame of victory. At least she hoped to.

So far, the place didn't look so promising.

After stepping off the train, she'd been assigned by the mayor to retrieve the mentor from his home in Victor's Village. Of course she remembered him. Haymitch Abernathy. He'd won the summer her joyous, carefree teenage years had taken a turn. Of course, that was passed, and she'd nearly forgotten all that had occurred, be it by time's passing or by the grand generosity of all her home had to offer.

But now, on the unswept steps of Abernathy's house, anxiety took her.

She'd practiced her speech, memorized the procedures. But she could not control the fate of her tributes. That was out of her reach, and when she lifted her fist to knock on the heavy front door, she could only pin that responsibility on one person.

All hope was lost when the man answered the door in stained trousers rolled up his knees, mud between his toes, and his shirt halfway buttoned, bringing a odorous cloud of liquor and stink with him.

He was awful.

-O-O-O-

_End._

_To Be Continued in Dust to Dust_

_-O-O-O-_

AN: Thank you for reading. If you have reviewed since the beginning, thank you so much. You're all so wonderful. I would've liked this to be more than it turned out as. I'm used to more…feedback, I suppose. Nevertheless, I've always written what makes me happy, and conning this story as a series, I think, will let me grow as a writer and get more in-depth with these characters. If you have enjoyed this story, please let me know any changes I could make for the future additions to it. Soon I will post the beginnings of Dust to Dust, which I plan to follow from the beginning of their years together as mentor and escort, up to the 74th Games, and then I'll have another installment from there forward past Mockingjay. Hopefully those stories will be a little more in depth, in that I think that's when the politics and controversy reach a head.

Anyways, thank you for reading. Its appreciated.


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